I pull my arm back.
Wes tugs at it with a good grip, and I stop breathing. “Rose. What are these cuts?”
“Cuts?” Mr. Thorne echoes from the head of the table. “Rose,you didn’t hurt yourself on the field, did you?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “And can you let go, please?”
“Not until you answer me.”
“Wes,” Wilder’s voice slices like a knife. “Let go.”
He releases me and I inhale, glancing at Wilder as if he could help right now.
His expression is the picture of calm. Collected. Like answering Wes’s question should be a breeze.
No. No. I’m not ready.
Wilder clears his throat, flashing me a look I’m too clouded to read. “Yeah, Rose. Why don’t you tell him?” Wilder suggests all too casually.
I wince and swallow hard. Wilder might be the all-righteous, truth-telling saint, but I’m taking this to my grave.
How do I explain several deep cuts along my arm? Thankfully, they’re mostly faded lines now, and Wes never has to know how deep these once were. Wilder will be disappointed, but I have to lie.
“I—”
“Those damn branches didn’t just do a number on our golf cart when Rose drove it through the bushes that night. Scraped her arm up pretty good, isn’t that right?”
He holds my gaze for a moment, still so cool compared to the turmoil in my stomach right now.
“Holy crap. Did you clean it well?”
Yeah,realwell,afterIpulledoutseventeenshardsofglassfrommyskin.
“Of course I did.” My voice is small despite my relief.
Wes shakes his head, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something likewhenwillyoulearn?orservesyouright, but instead, he runs his fingers gently along the scars. “Keep it out of the sun, OK?”
I nod and lower my sleeves, turning to Wilder with a small,grateful smile.
I can’t read his expression. It’s stoic but slightly warm with a gratefulness of his own. I can’t imagine what for. The only thing that comes to mind is that he’s the only other person besides my best friend who knows the truth I don’t dare share with anyone else.
28
Rose
We’re at Bones again. It’s the first time I’ve been back here since the fight Dallas got into with the Callahan Ranch clan.
It’s Saturday night and the bar is full. A comfortable full. Where every seat on the floor-long bar is taken and there’s a small crowd along the back wall. Faces seem friendlier somehow tonight. Less intimidating than when I was here alone.
Then again, I didn’t have Wilder by my side. And Wesley, Dallas, and even Silas, who was supposed to leave yesterday but stayed the extra night when he found out we were all going out, here too.
I see a few guys from work, including Randy and Barry, on the other side of the bar, sipping their drinks like they’re waiting for something.
And then I scan the floor for trouble .?.?. in other words, Ricky and Dusty. Two out of the several times I’ve gotten in trouble during my stay, the Callahan duo was somehow involved. Not to blame, no, but involved nonetheless.
“What’s the occasion again?” I ask Wilder as he guides me toward the back, where Silas and Wesley are seated at a roundhigh-top table. I’ve been hearing mixed reasons all day for tonight’s outing.
He keeps his hand on my back as we make our way through. “The guys kept it on the low all week, but .?.?. Randy and Barry are leaving.”
